The Final Score
by Valkyrie Vamp
Summary: Continuation of 'The Great Game'. Can Sherlock live with the consequences of all that he's done?
1. Trigger

**I can't believe how they ended 'The Great Game'! It was so mean!**

**This was intended as just a little one-shot of what was going through Sherlock's head at the end of the episode and has kind of spiralled off into a 'what happens next?' story.**

**Whoops!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Sherlock**_** and if I did I'd have written more than three episodes!**

The solution was simple.

All he had to do was pull the trigger.

If he could rid the world of such an evil as Moriarty, he could call his career – and his life – complete. One tiny movement of his right index finger and it would all be over.

It would end.

He would die too, of course. But it would be a worthy death, befitting of the greatest mind the world had ever seen. And wouldn't it be better? Here? Now? Better by his own hand whilst conquering his greatest enemy than fall victim to some nameless, faceless nobody years from now.

So why didn't he do it?

Moriarty smiled, gloating. He knew why. So did Sherlock.

And as his eyes met those of the reason, he realised he knew too.

John Watson. The only friend he had in the world. Could he sacrifice himself? Yes. Could he sacrifice the men waiting in the rafters, their guns aimed at himself? Most certainly.

But could he kill John?

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was scared.

It had taken a moment to recognise the emotion when he had first seen John with that despicable device strapped to his chest. His heart had quickened, his throat clenched and a heavy weight seemed to fall in his stomach as the consequences of what might happen tonight dawned on him.

He had been an arrogant fool.

He had walked right into the lion's den and now the only person he had any semblance of feeling for in the world was teetering on the brink of death as well.

And he couldn't be the one to bring it.

So he stood, gun aimed and primed. Undecided.

His eyes flitted from John's to Moriarty's. Fear, laughter, fear, laughter. His own head was swimming with the burden of the choice before him.

Save his friend now or save victims of the future?

And John's face, impassive to all but him, was trained resolutely on the gun in Sherlock's hand.

Then one movement.

A tiny inclination of the head.

And any trace of doubt vanished.

With a smile, and a silent apology, Sherlock Holmes squeezed the trigger.

**Short, I know but how much time can I spend in the guy's head without going completely bonkers? Hope to update soon but can't promise anything. Please review!**


	2. Damaged

**The start of the unintended chapters! This picks up from right after where the last left off. I'm not really happy with a lot of it but I thought that getting the story out was probably more important than nit-picking at everything. Thanks so much for all the feedback I've received! I should probably note that I reply to reviews via PM so if you don't have an account, sorry. No offence intended and rest assured that I appreciate your reviews just as much!**

**Disclaimer: Once again, **_**Sherlock**_** is not my creation, though I do claim credit for this chapter.**

The pistol kicked in Sherlock's hand.

He barely had time to blink before a heavy shape hurtled into his peripheral vision and tackled him, sending them both flying into the pool.

A searing pain brushed his thigh and then, for a moment, nothing existed but quiet.

A muffled boom echoed in Sherlock's head. The arms around him slackened as the shockwave rippled through the water. Forcing his eyes open, he reached out and caught the material of John's jacket in his numb fingers before they floated apart.

The water grew hot. Too fast. Too hot.

Scalding.

Burning. Burning in his lungs. He needed air.

Chunks of debris crashed into the water, miraculously avoiding the two friends.

The light overhead faded away.

He needed to breathe.

Hauling his friend's body, the detective kicked upward and broke the surface of the water.

The first breath was tainted with water. But the second was clear and sweet. Air flooded his lungs. Oxygen returned to his brain.

The pool was in shambles. Shattered tile littered the floor and fire licked around the edges of old shower curtains. One entire wall and half the roof had collapsed and through the rubble, Sherlock could see the first of the curious civilians, crowding around the scene.

Moriarty was nowhere in sight.

"Did you see where he went, John?" The doctor did not answer. "John?"

He glanced at his friend's face and saw with a start that his eyes were closed and his face unresponsive. The first tendrils of panic began to again creep around his heart.

"John!" Hooking his arm around his chest, Sherlock pulled him to the water's edge and dragged his dead weight from the pool.

A trail of red followed them.

Fresh pain emanated from Sherlock's leg the moment he attempted to stand but he ignored it and checked John over for injury.

The man was breathing at least. Water dribbled from the corner of his mouth but it appeared that he had been conscious long enough to hold his breath for the majority of time underwater. His airway seemed clear.

This done, Sherlock turned his attention methodically to his friend's back, from which a steady stream of blood was still leaking.

Panic and fear again threatened to overwhelm him but he shut off any emotion with practised ease. Emotion caused mistakes and that was something that neither he or John could afford right now.

Shards of tile were protruding from the blood-stained jacket before him. He repressed the urge to wince and cast a critical eye over the injuries.

They were severe and deep, but not critical. In addition to the lacerations on his shoulder, there were several minor burn marks scattered across his face and neck and a tear in his trousers revealed that a piece of wreckage had struck him after all, causing the pale skin to turn a mottled purple-blue. There was little he could do for him here, alone in a disused and mostly demolished swimming pool. He resorted to the only action he could take and positioned John on his stomach, head turned to ensure an unblocked airway, and checked his own pockets for something of use.

His mobile was ruined. Phones were simply just not designed to survive being thrown into pools to escape explosions.

Such an oversight.

Pieces of paper, reduced to unreadable mush, had gathered in the depths of the material but those aside, he had nothing.

Another pang of pain reverberated up his leg and Sherlock was vaguely surprised to realise that he had also suffered some damage. One of the snipers had evidently got a shot off and the bullet had grazed his thigh, ripping through the material of his trousers and tearing a gash in his skin.

It had been a good shot, under the circumstances.

He assumed that one of the bystanders would call the police and, sure enough, it wasn't long before the wail of sirens reached him on the night air.

Relief lifted some of the weight from his shoulders and a smile tugged at his lips. Sherlock Holmes relieved the police were here? Who'd have thought it?

His eyes were irresistibly drawn to John every few seconds. Just making _quite _sure that the good doctor was still with him. It had been a close call tonight.

Too close.

_No_, he told himself. _Not yet. There will be plenty of time for that later._

With that settled, he contented himself with watching John's breathing while conducting Wagner's _Tristan und Isolde _inside his head.

Ignoring everything else.

**A/N: A bit of a filler, maybe. Lots of Sherlock angst in next chapter! Pretty please review - they relieve my boredom.**


	3. Pacing

**So sorry this took me so long! Mad, hectic couple of weeks, highlights of which include family fights, no less than seven exams to cram for, my seventeenth birthday and a touch of money trouble. Extra long chapter to say sorry! Thankfully, writing always makes me feel better and reviews help even more so thanks to all you lovely people!**

**I feel I must warn you, dear readers, there is a helluva lot of self-blaming, self-loathing and generally pretty angsty and irritable Sherlock in this chapter. It's hard to write emotions for a sociopath so let me know if anything doesn't work - it would be greatly appreciated! Enjoy this instalment!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Sherlock**_** - though it would've been brilliant to claim the credit for 'gay Jim'! Pure genius at work right there.**

* * *

Lestrade barged into the hospital wing that was holding Sherlock Holmes. On the surface, he looked calm, important and in control.

In reality only one thing was really registering inside his head.

_I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him myself._

The head nurse looked up from a chart when he entered. She was a middle-aged woman with a careworn face and kind eyes that were, at this moment, narrowed in his direction.

"Can I help you?"

He flashed his badge in her face. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes." He made to step around her but she shifted and remained blocking his path. The badge had obviously had no effect then.

"I'm afraid no one is permitted to see Mr. Holmes until his next of kin can be contacted."

"And why is that?"

She looked at him incredulously. "The man was just in an explosion. It's doctor's orders that only family visitors are allowed. You'll have to wait, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly.

"Fine. What about John Watson?" She consulted the chart in her hand.

"He's still in surgery and probably won't regain consciousness until tomorrow."

A pit seemed to open up in Lestrade's stomach and twist uncomfortably. The reports he had received from his officers had been somewhat garbled and consisted mostly of complaints about Sherlock addressing them all as idiots when they finally retrieved him and John from the wreckage. As a result, he had imagined that the pair had, as usual, escaped fairly intact.

They always did.

But now he thought of John. That loyal, reliable soldier. He thought of him hurt.

He thought of Sherlock.

_This_, he decided,_ is probably not good._

* * *

_It's all my fault._

The words danced through Sherlock's mind, taunting him, mocking him. They only paused to offer further proof of the fact, images that he would rather forget but, for the first time in his life cursing his infallible memory, he never would.

_It's all my fault._

Blood. John's blood. Blood on his hands.

_It's all my fault._

A laugh. A high-pitched terrible laugh.

_It's all my fault._

Red dots. Flashing lights. Crippling, horrible fear.

_It's all my fault._

Boredom. That stagnant, irrepressible boredom that goaded him.

_It's all my fault._

_It's all my fault._

_It's all my fault._

"I know!" He yelled to the empty room.

The scratchy hospital sheets had tangled themselves around legs. He thankfully was spared any severe pain from his bullet wound by the morphine dripping steadily into his blood stream from the IV in his wrist. Pain would only distract him from his emotions.

Generally, he would dismiss them. He was, after all, famously detached. Cold. Unfeeling. But now he relished in feelings of guilt and shame and pure, unbridled rage that swarmed in his heart. Because he deserved this. This pain was the one that he could not and would not deaden.

John Watson was hurt and it was all his fault.

There was no punishment on earth that could possibly fit the crime, so he devised his own. Here, in this alien and uncomfortable bed, he was slowly torturing himself over memories and dark thoughts that crept into the corners of his head, no longer restrained.

Why? Why had he let him get involved with his life in the first place? Why hadn't he just given Mycroft the plans? Why did he have to challenge Moriarty? Why? Why? Why?

"Well, don't you look pensive?"

Sherlock didn't even bother to raise his head. He had known of his brother's presence from the moment he stepped in the room and was sufficiently immersed in his own thoughts to commit nothing more to the conversation than a grunt of acknowledgement.

"How eloquent." Mycroft strode across the room to the bedside chair, followed, as Sherlock deduced by the sound of heels, scent of perfume and incessant clicking of phone keys among other things, by his assistant.

A stony silence fell between the Holmes men.

It was finally broken by a loud, irritating and irritated sigh from Mycroft. "What were you thinking?"

Sherlock snorted. "It's nice to see your bedside manner hasn't improved."

"Quite apart from the legal and political ramifications of your actions, you put your life in the hands of a psychopath and walked headfirst into a trap as though you'd received a blow to the head that lowered your IQ rather significantly. I can condone your chasing criminals through the city but this was really bordering on stupidity, Sherlock."

"Are you just here to lecture me or was there something you wanted?" His tone was icy cold and dripping in acid as he glared at his older brother. As if he gave a damn about his own life right now.

Mycroft surveyed the younger man for a moment before replying. Surprisingly, Sherlock did seem genuinely upset about the situation. There were emotions in his eyes that he could not recall ever seeing there before. He knew the reason, but it still was strange to see him so affected.

Emotion, it seemed, made Sherlock appear more human. And that was so alien to his character that it was far more disconcerting to witness than Mycroft would care to admit.

All this crossed his mind within a few seconds and none of it registered on his features. He shrugged nonchalantly.

"Simply adhering to my brotherly duty." The comment came across as overly scathing, but this had been the only way to talk to his sibling for a long time. "Oh, do stop pouting. I thought you might like to know that Dr Watson has been taken care of, that's all."

And there it was. That flicker of genuine, real and heart-wrenching concern.

It disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared but it didn't go unnoticed. Nothing did when Mycroft was in the room.

"What do you mean 'taken care of'?"

"I mean that I had him shot." Honestly, what did he _think_ it meant?

In reply to the contemptuous glare aimed in his direction, however, he relented. "I had my own Doctor perform his surgery. Everything went well and he's now in recovery. Apart from a few broken ribs, a fractured kneecap and quite a few stitches in his shoulder, there doesn't seem to be any serious damage."

Sherlock turned away and became engrossed in his own fingers.

"Fine."

Mycroft stood to leave, 'Anthea' in tow, but paused before reaching the door.

"I like him, Sherlock. He's a good man and he's good for you. Just try not to get him killed." He left the comment hanging in the air and said no more except to call over his shoulder from the corridor. "Oh, and there's a detective fellow here to see you."

* * *

When Lestrade entered Sherlock's private room a few minutes later, he saw the detective, in complete disregard for Doctor's orders, pacing relentlessly back and forth across the room.

He sighed by way of announcing his presence.

Sherlock was similarly courteous.

"Have you found him?" Hs voice was an agitated, harsh snap. It was the closest the DI had ever seen him to worried. Deciding it would probably be unwise to goad him just yet, Lestrade settled with answering the question, storing his rant for future use. Highlights of this included 'what the hell were you thinking?' and 'are you suicidal or just plain stupid?'.

Ah, well. Another time perhaps.

"We've uncovered six bodies, each clad in black and holding rifles so none of them likely o be Moriarty."

"Of course not." Sherlock came to a standstill and glared at the wall as though it had caused him some great personal offence. He spoke again but quieter, darker, and it was probably more to himself than anyone else. "He can't have got out unhurt, otherwise the game would have started again."

"Maybe he doesn't know you're alive?" Lestrade supplied helpfully.

Sherlock snorted.

"Please. He knows. And he won't be happy." It may have been a trick of the light but Lestrade could have sworn he saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch.

"I want to see John."

* * *

**Poor Sherlock! I really do feel rather mean…**

**Ah, well - I'll get over it. A bit of shameless plugging here: since I mentioned boredom somewhere up there ^, I have a 221B fic called Curious Things that rambles on about it that NO ONE has reviewed.**

**This makes me sad.**

**Being sad makes me annoyed/do stupid things.**

**Only possible outcome: horrible mass-murder. Do try your best to prevent this.**

**Though I might get to meet Sherlock if he has to hunt me down…**


	4. Blame

**Welcome back! Once again, thanks for all the lovely reviews I've received! They are so appreciated and I beg of you to continue posting them.**

**So, here's chapter four. I feel Sherlock might be a little OOC but it could just be that I'm not used to him being emotional. Also, probably not likely that John would be conscious quite so quickly after surgery to remove those darned tile shards from his back but, what the hell, I'm taking advantage of my artistic licence. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock nor John are my creations but their following words and actions are.**

It had taken twelve threats, three hysterical nurses and one blackmailed Doctor for Sherlock to be allowed out of his room and along the floor to where John Watson was recovering.

They both had private rooms, courtesy of Mycroft, and Sherlock was glad of it. Lestrade's questioning glances had been bad enough without an audience to witness the inevitably messy scene that was sure to ensue.

He knew what he had to do, and he felt sick because of it.

The door before him seemed so ominous. One flimsy piece of wood that now provided a physical counterpart of the thin line dividing Sherlock from sanity and complete isolation.

He pushed it open.

John was sitting up in his bed, helping himself to a glass of water from the jug on his bedside cabinet. He turned when the door opened and his face immediately broke into a crooked smile of relief when he saw Sherlock.

The guilt-laden weight in the latter's chest seemed to gain a few pounds.

His eyes cast a critical view over the doctor. They noted the IV line trailing out from his wrist, the sensors on his chest that were responsible for the beeping of the EKG machine and, worst of all, they were drawn to the bandages, just visible from the top of the pale blue hospital gown, that adorned the smaller man's shoulder.

John's grin faltered a little when Sherlock didn't move from the door but, seeming to accept this as yet another quirk in his friend's character, he simply ventured into conversation himself.

"Well, we cut that one a little close, didn't we?"

Again he was met by silence. He nodded pointedly at the chair by his bed and Sherlock thankfully accepted the invitation, though remaining stony and impassive.

John hesitated.

"Look - if you're mad at me for, well, for being stupid enough to let Moriarty hold me hostage I -" he fell silent at the look of pure outrage on Sherlock's face.

This was too much. The fact that John, good, loyal, steadfast John was blaming himself was just so wrong. Wrong enough to prompt Sherlock into voicing aloud the words that had been circling his mind for the best part of two days.

"It's my fault."

"Hmm? What is?"

"This." He gestured at John's shoulder and eyed the hospital equipment with distain. "All of it. It's my fault."

The doctor's gaze turned from confused to sympathetic. He opened his mouth to offer words of comfort or denial, but he was cut off by Sherlock who seemed, now that he had begun to voice his inner monologue, unable to stop.

"I'm the one who played his game. I'm the one who offered up the plans and goaded a psychopathic criminal mastermind into a meeting. I walked straight into such an obvious trap without a second thought about the consequences and do you know _why_?"

John, speechless at this unprecedented outburst, simply shook his head.

"Because I was _bored_." Even if the disgust in his voice had not been so prominent, his actions would have been evidence enough of his distress. The infamously emotionally distant detective was wringing his hands. His eyes were wide and pleading. He was _shaking_ for god's sake!

"But I never… I didn't… if I had…"

He rose from his chair and swept to the window, staring determinedly out at the London skyline as a slightly flabbergasted John waited for him to continue.

"I'm sorry John. I'm so, so sorry. The great analytical mind never even considered that he wasn't one step ahead this time. I was careless and you nearly paid for it with you life." He turned his tortured eyes back to the stricken patient. "I'm dangerous, and you're a good man. You don't deserve a life that includes me. No one does. I wouldn't wish myself on anyone, much less a…" He floundered for a moment. "… a friend."

John sat dumbstruck. He hadn't even thought that Sherlock was capable of such a display. There was something… automatic - rehearsed - about his words but each rang true with a heart clenching and deep regret.

Sherlock had seemingly regained his not inconsiderable composure. He gave a silent and reserved nod, interpreting his friend's (_no_, he told himself, _not anymore_) silence as acceptance of his words. He turned to leave, desperately trying to ignore the weight constricting his chest.

"You idiot."

He froze.

"Do you really think that I would have stuck around this long if I blamed _you _for anything that's happened?"

Sherlock stayed silent, still tensely staring at the door.

"I _chose _this Sherlock!" John's voice was fast approaching anger. "Even after all the crazy stuff we've been through, after staring down the barrel of a gun more times than any man by rights should, I'm still here. And do you want to know why?"

Sherlock looked at him now, turning slowly on the spot to face his rather flushed-looking roommate.

"Because I'm your _friend_, you prat." The sheer exasperation of his tone almost made the detective smile. Almost. John very nearly exploded. "Granted, that probably speaks to some sort of subconscious death-wish on my part, but being a _friend_ means not turning your backs on one another and I'll be damned if I'm just going to let you walk away now!" He stopped, breathing hard and glaring defiantly at the skeletal figure before him.

Sherlock opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again. "Thank you, John."

There was more in those three words than either of them would ever speak aloud. An intense gratitude and comradery that linked them and, as Sherlock now realised, always would.

He grinned.

So did John.

The former turned back to the door and pulled down the handle. The bed-ridden Doctor frowned. Hadn't they just established that he was staying?

"Sherlock…"

"Don't worry," he interrupted, still smiling. "I'm not going anywhere."

And with that, he strode from the room.

**Oh - terrible clichéd moment at the end there. I am disappointed with myself. *shakes head* By the way - any comments on the word 'comradery'? According to my computer's dictionary it doesn't exist. If this is indeed the case then, well, nothing really. It's staying put. I am far too stubborn to be defeated by non-existent terms.**

**Yes, I am very strange.**

**Surely you know what to do by now? The poor button is feeling neglected.**


	5. Author Note

I'm so sorry! This is not a new chapter and I know I've been a terrible author for not updating in so long. RL stuff just piled up school's a mess and I just haven't had the time or inspiration to write.

Next month, however, I have a lot of time off school. Most of my coursework will be done by then and I want to make some progress on here. I've decided that I'll do one fic at a time and write exclusively for that until it's complete. That leaves me with two choices. Unfortunately, I can't make up my mind.

'The Price of Reflection' (Merlin) has been left alone the longest and I actually know where I'm taking it, it's just a matter of writing it down.

'The Final Score' (Sherlock) is a little more complicated in terms of sorting out the plot in my head but I think this has had a better overall response.

I need your help! There's a poll on my profile with a choice between these two and whatever has te most votes by March 31st will be the one I finish first. Please, please, please go and vote.

Many thanks and apologies,

Valkyrie Vamp


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